I stepped out of my Uber into the busy streets of Lagos, which were, as usual, a chaotic mess—vendors shouting, cars honking, people weaving through each other as they hurried through their day. On the other side of the street, a preacher and his loud microphone were blasting a sermon, something about praying for Nigeria. But none of that mattered. I was on a mission.
I spotted the lab supply store—a rundown, barely-there building with a sign so grimy it looked like it had been forgotten for years. I pushed through the door, and a tiny bell gave a sad, barely-there jingle to announce my arrival. Inside was a labyrinth of steel shelves and dusty glass cases, a cluttered mess of lab junk.
The air smelled like a mix of industrial cleaners and that weird antiseptic scent you only get in places like this. I wandered past rows of beakers and flasks, my eyes darting over the shelves. My fingers brushed against the cold metal, but my mind was somewhere else, tangled in the mess that brought me here.
Finally, I found the pharmaceuticals section. My hands were shaking as I grabbed a bottle, my thoughts racing like a runaway train. I told myself not to overthink it. Just get it done. All I had to do was walk out of the store with this purchase, and I’d be one step closer to… whatever this was supposed to be.
I put the bottle on the counter, and the clerk looked up from his phone. He gave me a once-over, his face shifting from boredom to concern as he read the label. His brows furrowed, and with a hint of shock, he asked, “What are you planning to do with this?”
I’ve never thought of myself as a liar, but if the situation calls for it, I can spin a pretty convincing story. I leaned in a bit, giving him a flash of cleavage—because, well, you know how guys are.
“My mum,” I said, forcing the words out like they were dripping with sincerity, “she cures meat and uses this stuff a lot. She asked me to pick it up for her.”
I watched his eyes shift, momentarily distracted. It was almost too easy.
I tilted my head, my eyes wide with a mix of innocence and almost genuine concern. “Am I not supposed to be buying this?” I asked, my voice trembling just enough to sell the act.
He glanced at me with a softer expression, his earlier scepticism giving way to a hint of excitement. “It’s a laboratory chemical, so I had to ask. Just making sure.”
As I stepped out of that store, a deep sadness settled over me. All these years, I’d struggled, searching for something to help me, not realizing it was right there, so easily accessible for just $6.99.
I’ve always been grateful for the internet. It’s this tangled, unpredictable web of chance encounters. Without it, I never would’ve stumbled upon that New York Times article—the one that laid it all out, every detail I needed. They wrote it as a warning, but to those who knew how to read between the lines, it was a goldmine.
I walked down the street, passing the preacher again who was now fervently praying for blessings for Nigeria. I stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of it all, and whispered a silent prayer of my own.
“God bless the New York Times.”
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